


You Know Your Place.

by PinkFringedFury



Category: The Teahouse
Genre: Angst, Desperation, Emotional Manipulation, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-01
Updated: 2012-05-01
Packaged: 2017-11-04 16:31:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/395886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PinkFringedFury/pseuds/PinkFringedFury
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You watch him go. The door clicks shut behind you. He doesn’t even cast a glance in your direction. He’ll come for you again, you know. Probably in the next few days. He might not even come himself; he’ll just send you a note or a messenger, demanding your presence in this room that you know is not reserved just for you, and expect you to drop everything – your work, your commitments, your self-respect, your morals – to go to him. </p><p>And you will go to him. You’ll go to him, like you always do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Know Your Place.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the truly heart-breaking and delicious page 94 / Chapter 4, Page 1.
> 
> Rhys D'Ivore is a stone cold bastard, an emotionally abusive Liege and an all around shitbag.There is nothing pleasant or worthy about him beyond being drop-dead gorgeous and an amazing screw.

"Zephyr.”

You knew he was coming, long before he found you. You heard his footsteps down the corridor, echoing on simple varnished oak. The barracks are a labyrinth, but he knows the way to your office – and to your room. You knew what he wanted before he pushed open the door without knocking, without checking to see if anyone was with you. He looks at you with that smug little smirk and you know that you have no choice. He gives you a few minutes to sign a few papers and send recruits to cancel all of your appointments (as much as you cannot abide lateness or absence), then leans on your desk. The Crown Prince will not be ignored. The lust in his eyes already has you in thrall, as it always does. He trails one long finger along the length of your jawline and you are, without a doubt, his. You lock the door to your office tightly and follow him.

He takes you to the same spare room in the castle as he always does. Your room at the barracks is much too plain for the likes of him – and that aside, far too close to prying ears. He likes to be heard in his conquests, but never discovered. Never challenged on his behaviour. Never held to account for his sins. You’re already anxious, urgent, clammy and half-hard by the time you pause outside the door. There’s something odd about him today. He’s smiling at you, but the smile isn’t just the usual, friendly one. Not a wholly flirtatious one. There’s something much darker in it and it calls to you on a primal level. You hold the door open for him and swallow hard as he walks inside and brushes past you suggestively. Oh, hell. 

You know what to expect, most times. He seduces you easily, your foreplay is quick and intense, he prepares you and you rut together until you’re both spent. He occasionally dozes for a few minutes afterwards. It’s those times that make that stupid, unwanted sensation flutter in your chest – particularly when he tucks his head under your chin and hums. Most of the time, you know what you’re there for and what he wants from you. It’s not difficult. It’s not the first time. That was years ago. You’ve both grown up since then. 

Well…you’ve grown up, or at least.

This time, things are different. He kisses you – which is not unusual – but the kiss is entirely teeth and forcefulness. You step back and he pins you to the door. You try to pull your mouth away and he refuses to let you. You feel sharp pressure on your lower lip and retaliate with pressure of your own. He jerks his face away and bites your neck, pulling a groan and a hiss from you. What is this? He’s never been so aggressive before. You expose your neck to him as he leans down for it and he marks you with ugly bruises. His thigh rubs hard between your legs. He laughs when you try to ask him what he’s doing. You taste blood. He pulls your cape away and rips the fabric. You reach for his heavy coat and he slaps your hand back, punishing you with another brutal kiss, which you return as best you can. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced with him and despite yourself, you want more of it.

You’re naked before he’s lost even a shred of clothing. He looks at you and smirks and you shift your weight as you stand with military grace and control, refusing to sway under his gaze. 

“On the bed.”  
The order sends a spike of anticipation to your groin. He grips your chin between thumb and forefinger and makes you tilt your head to look up at him, although there’s no more than an inch or so of difference between you. 

“I said, on the bed,” he repeats. There’s a hunger in his voice that’s never been there before. “Now.”

You swallow and head for the bed that you know so well. You can feel his gaze burning into your back. A hot flush spread across your cheeks and the back of your shoulders. The scrutiny embarrasses you. You know that he likes to make you squirm. 

You clamber onto the bed and sit cross-legged, with your hands in your lap. Rhys removes his coat idly and drapes it on the hook on the far wall. He removes something from his pocket and tosses it over to you. It lands on the bed in front of you.

“Prepare yourself,” he orders. 

You hesitate, because he’s never told you to do that before. He fixes you with a look that makes desire curl in the pit of your stomach and prompts your skin to prickle with needy goosebumps.

“Either you do it,” he murmurs, unbuttoning his shirt, “or you don’t get any.”

The threat is not an idle one. You try to avoid meeting his eyes directly as you open the small bottle and ease the clear gel onto your fingers. This is so humiliating – and you hate yourself for letting him see how much it affects you, how much you’re enjoy this new game, and how hard your cock is. You lean back onto the pillows and twist onto your side. A noise from Rhys makes you pause.

“I want to see.”

Oh God. Oh god. You nod stiffly and ease back onto your back. Your legs split, revealing your erection and your backside to Rhys, who strips slowly and watches you with a smirk. You smooth your slick fingers down and rub against yourself, stroking your erection with your free hand to detract from the discomfort. One finger works into the tight muscle. 

The angle makes it difficult, but Rhys will not be disobeyed. You soon work in a second, curling and stretching them and coating the way for the Prince, who watches with such an approving, predatory gaze. You find yourself stroking faster, thrusting the digits in and out to match the pace. You hear small gasps coming from your lips. You close your eyes and embrace the sensation and the dark enjoyment of being watched. 

Three fingers and you’re swallowing down murmurs and soft moans. It’s good, like this. Being watched like this. You’re his world right now; everything he wants to see. You like the thought of that. You only open your eyes when his hands grip yours and pull them away. The absence of the fingers is more pressing than you expected it to be. His face is close to yours and you lean in for a kiss, which you are not granted.

“Not for you.”

His hand moves from your wrist and curls into your hair, threading long fingers through messy strands. He brings your head forward and down and you realise what you are expected to do.

“Suck it,” he orders. His grip tightens in your hair, as if he’s expecting a fight. It’s lightly painful, so you do as you’re told. You don’t admit to yourself that your mouth is already watering as he presses the head to your lips.

“Open.”

You part your lips and plan to begin with some light teasing of the head, before taking more of the shaft. The decision is taken away from you as Rhys pushes forwards, into your mouth. You struggle against the unexpected intrusion, but the grip on your hair keeps you in place.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmurs in a sing-song tone. You protest, but the vibrations of your indignation roll down the length of his erection and prompt a low groan from the Prince. You stop fighting him – you want more of those noises. You want to hear Rhys in ecstasy. You’ll do anything to hear those. You want to do well. You want to please him. 

You follow the pace he sets, and as humiliated as you are by the sheer fact that he’s fucking your mouth like you’re some common whore, you suck and lick like any professional and dare to scrape your teeth gently along the shaft when he pulls out. He strokes a thumb along your face and pushes in again, deeper, until you can taste him at the back of your throat. You don’t gag. You’re too experienced with him to gag. He seems damn determined to choke you on it, though, and you struggle to remain dignified when your combined ministrations produce such lewd and delicious noises. You feel his pulse against your tongue. You stroke yourself in time as he violates your mouth, but yet again your hands are knocked away by him. He pulls out from your mouth and tuts at you, like a chiding parent, for your audacity at self-pleasuring.

“On your knees.”

You shift on the bed until you’re positioned, and he can see everything. You can feel your cheeks burning. You can feel his body-heat as he approaches and you expect him to rub himself against the curve of your backside, or to torture your erection as wonderfully as he normally does. You can feel your legs shaking. You want it. You do not expect him to press the head of his cock against your entrance. Your attempts to brace yourself are largely in vain when his lips pepper the nape of your neck with kisses, undoing your control. You feel him test the muscles, then push against them. You breathe deeply to relax yourself, but it’s so hard to be calm when he’s both fighting and delighting your body and hissing with pleasure at how tight he finds you. The burning ache is spectacular and you’re disgusted with yourself for enjoying something so vulgar. You’re the Captain of the guard, not some courtesan!

“You like that, princess?”

What? You don’t have time to consider the statement. He’s halfway in and you rock back against him, urging him to be slow and quick and gentle and rough all at once. He’s root deep in a few shaky gasps and you pant heavily. He gropes your backside and calls you a filthy name. You hate him for it. You hate how every poisonous word that drops from his lips makes you shudder for more. You hate how every single fantasy you’ve had since you were twenty one involved him, somehow. You hate how when he orders you to call his name, you do it without question. You hate bucking into your hands at night and biting hard into your gloves so you won’t be heard by your soldiers.

He gives you only a few short moments before he begins. You gasp and groan but it doesn’t dissuade him. His pace is set and you can only match him and deal with the perfect mixture of ache and bliss that rolls through you with each thrust. You’re to adjust to his wants, not the other way around. It’s how it’s always been, isn’t it? You never get a say. You’re nothing to him. You never will be. You’re just one of a hundred other lovers; a convenient body to use whenever the mood takes him. Whenever he wants. You can’t resist him. Even though the embarrassment of what you do is crippling, Rhys laughs and teases and flirts with you even more, because Rhys D’Ivore has no respect for anyone, or anything. Still such a spoilt child, always thinking of himself and wanting, wanting, wanting. Soon, he’ll be more than just your Prince; he will be your King. 

That thought terrifies you more than any other, because when the time comes, you know that you will be made to enforce his will. There will be war. There will be suffering. 

There will be human casualty on an unimaginable scale. He won’t even bat an eyelid as he gives the marching order and sends a thousand men to their deaths over some pointless sliver of land because he wants it. When you imagine this, disgust and fear churn in the pit of your stomach. You’re a hypocrite and a deceiver. How can you expect your men to stand up for justice, to act with chivalrous honour, to adhere to their strict and righteous moral code, when you, the Captain of the Guard, let yourself be degraded and debased by a ruthless, gorgeous tyrant and beg him for the privilege?

He pushes your face into the pillows, hand tightly knotted in your hair. Why is he so rough with you, today? He’s never, ever treated you like this before. You’re struggling to breathe through feathers and between moans and your ragged gasps don’t bring enough air to your straining lungs. You grunt and toss your head in an attempt to make him relinquish his grip. He forces it back down and purrs thickly into your ear.

“Head down, kitten.”

The endearment is not something you recognise, but you don’t care. At least it’s something. You’ll take what you can get in this storm of aggression and control. You don’t have the focus to feel repulsed by your dependency on him, particularly not when he makes you raise your hips like a cat in heat and fucks you harder still.

Your erection weeps and you are desperate to give yourself some sort of relief from the agonising, wonderful pressure, but whenever you try to move your hand, he grips your wrist and pins it down with a smirk and a ‘no’ or a throaty laugh. You resort to rocking your hips forwards with each thrust, awkwardly curving your spine in an attempt to rub your cock against your thighs. The bastard knows that there’s nothing you can do in this position; you’re utterly reliant on him for pleasure. Part of you is outraged. Part of you sears with delight. The rest of you wails because you need it, you need it, Your Highness, please-!

The torment goes on. Rhys drives into you at the most wonderful angle and it leaves you wholly defenceless and completely at his mercy. You’ll say and do anything for it, now. He knows it. He makes you beg and you do, like the shameless whore you are. You can feel his thrusts losing their rhythm. The bed groans and creaks. The headboard bangs against the wall. You hope to God that nobody can hear you. You hope to God that nobody knows. The shame is unbearable as it is. 

He pulls your head up suddenly and you cry out at the unexpected burn on your scalp. Air rushes into your lungs and you realise that you’re light-headed and dizzy and disorientated. Everything that he is and does overwhelms you. Prompted by a ragged murmur, you support your weight and his on strong, shaking arms as he moves his hands and grips your hip hard enough to leave bruises in the shape of his fingerprints. His hand curls around your now-painful erection and squeezes until you heave a dry sob and bow your head in submission. He is kind enough to curl a tight fist around your cock and to pump you with blessed urgency. A desperate pace establishes between you and him as you chase your climaxes. You fear that you will not receive one, if he finishes first. You fuck his hand and he fucks your body and the symphony of shouts and strains and moans and creaks fills the room, thick with the scent of men and lubricant and sex and sweat. Rhys’ skin is as hot as yours as his mouth finds your ear.

“Scream f-for me...”

You obey.

Your orgasm is ripped from you with rough squeezes of that elegant hand and you barely have time to enjoy it before he’s biting hard into your shoulder and defiling you as you clench and shudder around him and stain his hand with your release. You’ve never come so hard in your life and it leaves you breathless and giddy. He’s snarling through his orgasm; he doesn’t ever snarl like that. He never calls you names as he rides the aftershocks, or belittle you with dirty talk, asking you how it feels to be his little bitch all over again and ordering you to tell him what a worthless slut you are. It takes you a second or two to muster the energy over the fatigue and the pleasure and the self-disgust, but you do it. You tell him whatever he wants to hear, just as he likes it. But you can’t feel him smiling between ragged pants as you choke around the filth coming from your own lips. 

He pulls out in a sharp movement of his hips, which makes both of you cry out in discomfort. In answer to his question: yes, yes you can feel it inside you. You can feel his royal seed, warm and wet and lewd, still inside. It’s disgusting and abhorrent and you’re a pervert and a fetishist for enjoying the sensation, for desperately imagining that maybe it’s some sort of trace of affection for him to make you acknowledge it. You know you’ll be fucking your hands for days because of this. You’re so utterly pathetic.

You lie where he left you, face-down in the pillows that are damp with your tears and sweat and saliva. You try not to think about it when he wipes away your semen and cleans himself off on the sheets. The maids will clear it up. You hate the thought of that. Why should they be made to deal with the ugly, awful reality of your illicit trysts? Why does he treat everyone else as second-class, just because they’re not royal-bred like he is? The King is not like that. Her Highness, Princess Evelyn, is not like that. His weight disappears from the bed and you assume that he will take the sheet and wander to the bathroom to wash away the grime and the evidence. To your complete and utter bafflement, he does not. You hear him fumbling with his clothes. His voice comes back to you from across the room.

“Clean yourself up.”

Your whole body tenses with anger and resentment, but you hold your tongue and grit your teeth. The likes of you don’t have the privilege of free speech in the presence of royal bastards like him. Does he really think so little of you, to speak to you that way? You, his most loyal of companions. His most loving of lovers. One of the only friends he has who would never dream of hurting him. You raise yourself up to look at him as he searches for his fine high-collared shirt. You didn’t think of bruising him this time. You wish you had. You wish you dared. But you were good; you did everything he asked, was everything he wanted, obeyed without question. You smile at him when he catches your eyes.

There’s such disappointment on his face. 

Your expression is clearly obvious, because he rolls his eyes and picks up his shirt and ignores how completely outraged and furious you are. You did everything he wanted! You did everything right! Everything he asked of you, without question, on demand! You didn’t try to fight him or challenge him when he clearly wanted you to submit! You allowed yourself to be degraded, yet again, by him! How dare he look at you like that!? He smoothes his hair back into place and turns away from you to continue dressing.  
You turn sharply, even though it hurts to move your aching body, and look at him with eyes that hiss I am not your whore.

After a pause, he looks back at you over his shoulder, with eyes that sigh no, no you aren’t.

He turns away and finishes dressing in silence. Your eyes sting and you cannot bear to show him your face - and it hurts you twice as much to know that he honestly doesn’t want you to. You hide your humiliated flush in the damp pillows. You’ve served your purpose to him and he won’t need you now until he’s bored or frustrated and in need of something to fuck that’ll sob his praises as well as you do. You know that better than anybody else. You pity his future Queen. You pity the children he will have and treat with this much disinterest and disdain. You hurt more than you could ever explain and he does not care.

He’s already dressed by the time you’ve scrubbed away the worst of the moisture on your cheeks and eyelashes. You will not let him see you cry. Not that it matters; he’s already halfway to the door and he doesn’t look back at you as he opens it. An unspoken order hangs between you, like it always does. Not a word to anyone – and come when I call you. 

You watch him go. The door clicks shut behind you. He doesn’t even cast a glance in your direction. He’ll come for you again, you know. Probably in the next few days. He might not even come himself; he’ll just send you a note or a messenger, demanding your presence in this room that you know is not reserved just for you, and expect you to drop everything – your work, your commitments, your self-respect, your morals – to go to him. 

And you will go to him. You’ll go to him, like you always do. You’ll bend your knee to him and be his willing slave until he discards you, because you love him. Because it’s all you’ve ever wanted, to feel his lips on your lips, your hands warming his, his smile against your skin, your heart keeping time with his. You’ll go to him when he calls, each and every time, because you’re a fool and a hypocrite and a hopeless wreck of a man, captivated by the most beautiful monster. You’ll bend to his will, you’ll submit to his wants, obey his orders, stomach his soul-crushing apathy and let him grind your spirit beneath one polished, expensive boot – and you will never, ever tell him how you feel.

Because he is your Prince, and you know your place.


End file.
